


A Gathering of Clouds

by defieddracula



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Gen, I think that's all that's really worth mentioning actually, Mild Blood, Mild Language, it took everything I had not to title this Welcome to the Murder Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 15:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defieddracula/pseuds/defieddracula
Summary: With whispers of treachery in the Dark Brotherhood's Wings, Lucien Lachance knows the family desperately needs new blood, an outsider they can truly trust.  So when the Night Mother speaks and Ungolim brings word of a potential new recruit, Lucien waste no time traveling to Anvil to meet her.  He's heard the rumors, heard the stories, but he hopes and prays the lauded Champion of Cyrodiil will be so much more.  She has to be.





	A Gathering of Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly an experiment while I stumble around trying to find my Lucien voice. So...yeah, obviously more exhibition than necessary. I also took some creative liberty with the dialogue. But once I get a firmer grip on things, I might tighten things up a little--the ending in particular. In the meantime, I hope it's at least readable.

Anvil’s northern gates groaned shut behind Lucien. The guards flanking them didn’t so much as exchange a glance, deciding that their comrades outside had vetted him thoroughly. Or at least enough, given the ungodly hour. One leaned back against the wall, dangerously close to nodding off. The other dragged off his helmet and arming cap to rake his hand through his greasy hair. Part of Lucien was disappointed they let him pass so easily. He could’ve killed them without so much as a whisper. In the right circumstances, he would have, too, if only just to spite their poor work ethic. 

Leaden clouds cruised across the inky sky, taking turns blurring, blotting out, then revealing the moons and clusters of glittering stars. Lightning flared out at sea, and thunder grumbled, long and low and ominous. He paid it no mind. Rain had never bothered him. 

He glanced up and down the main thoroughfare, feeling fresh despite the sticky heat and his long journey. The night was silent, save for the wash of the tide and the weary creaking of ships in their slips. Anvil’s unique bouquet rolled over him: from the docks, salty air, exotic herbs and spices, old and new sweat, fish ranging from fresh to fouled. And from the city itself, wine and ale, roasted beef and cinnamon spiced sweet rolls from The Count’s Arms, torch smoke, burning pitch, and wet dog. Sailors and locals alike caroused in the sleazy establishments strung around the port. The tamer sorts snored away at home or drank to ballads in the Count’s Arms, leaving only a handful of guardsmen to trudge up and down their patrol routes. 

_Lovely._

He paused before the tree across from the guildhalls—an uncivilized thing compared to Chorrol’s noble oak. He’d been a lowly, wet-behind-the-ears murderer when he’d first seen this one, but he preferred it now as he had then. Its weathered bark, numerous split trunks, and tangle of claw-like branches made it unique. Gave it character. He’d have to draw it again one day, now that his work no longer resembled chicken scratch.

But work came before pleasure, and as a Speaker for the Black Hand, he had plenty of work. Arranging contracts, collecting coin. Recruitment duties too, once, but with deaths of key members and whispers of treachery in the Brotherhood’s wings, more than a year had passed since Ungolim spoke of potential new members; the last prospect—spitfire of a Dunmer—had refused by way of a crude hand gesture and threatened to brain him with a half-empty bottle of ale. Lucien left him to his gambling and whoring. A shame, really. From what the Listener had said, the elf and Gogran would’ve gotten on famously. 

The Night Mother conveyed contracts aplenty, yet seemed indifferent to the Brotherhood’s thinning ranks. Lucien consoled himself with the notion that She knew what was best for their family. That these deaths served some higher purpose and her cold, loving hand would guide them through whatever storm loomed on the horizon. He’d prayed to her nightly, failing to see or hear any answers. So with word of every new murder, worry and doubt wormed their way into his mind, slimy and slippery, wriggling away when he tried to toss them aside. He wanted, needed to intervene, but how? Where? The Black Hand had no leads, and that meant their enemy could be anyone. He—the _Brotherhood_ —needed fresh blood.

When Ungolim gave his weekly report, Lucien finally felt like his prayers had been answered. It was as if a blindingly bright room had been plunged into cool, blissful darkness. Of all people, they were to recruit Tatiana Vestalis, the storied Champion of Cyrodiil herself. It had taken everything he had to maintain his gravestone façade, but he insisted he visit the Champion while his fellow Speakers tend to the contracts. They unanimously agreed. 

Since then, something warm fluttered in his chest, unfamiliar and dangerous, but not wholly unpleasant. Hope, perhaps? He hoped not-, 

No. Not hope. Hope got his lot killed. 

He buried the memories of the Dunmer, of his shameful doubt in their Mother. He turned left at the abandoned house; a shrill neigh and slew of frantic curses echoed over the city wall behind him, and a dark smirk twitched onto his lips. He’d warned the stablehand to leave Shadowmere alone. But like so many now-fingerless fools before him, the idiot hadn’t listened. So be it.

Benirus Manor had been vacant for as long as he could remember, a ghost of wealth and grandeur. Talk of fell spirits dissuaded beggars from sleeping in its shadows; city watchmen—veterans and neophytes alike—gave it a wide berth on their patrols. Little grew around it, the grass perpetually shriveled and ugly. Even the otherwise audacious seagulls avoided it, apparently afraid to so much as shit on its tiled roof, let alone perch there. In the taverns, locals swapped tales of what lurked within. Purely for sport, he spun his own stories when in town, delighting in people’s wide eyes and ashen faces. Still, he wasn’t naïve or stupid enough to believe the house was merely abandoned. Not with his own experience with the undead, with the way the hairs on his arms and legs and the nape of his neck prickled when he passed by.

He never cared to investigate personally, though. He was an assassin, not a sellsword or exorcist. What became of people after he killed them wasn’t his business. 

Despite everything, Vestalis apparently lived there. Even as Lucien turned the corner, he couldn’t help but wonder why someone who’d bested the hordes of Oblivion and countless beasts and bandits would care about a derelict, supposedly haunted house—let alone move into it. Had she not tired of such things? Perhaps she had nowhere else to go or had grown so accustomed to adversity, to fighting for her life, that other places would leave her itching for the hilt of her sword. Perhaps she felt compelled to cleanse the property. Or, maybe she’d simply gotten the place for a bargain. Glory only bought so much, after all, and time had a funny way of devaluing it.

Lucien looked around to be sure he was alone, seeing only a burly tomcat devouring a small rat just off the street. Satisfied, he cast his invisibility spell and disappeared in a shower of green mist. People’s motivations had always fascinated him, but he’d ridden hell for leather to speak to the Champion. Not wonder at her personal circumstances.

Cold didn’t sweep over him as he halted before the manor. Nothing seemed to watch him from the shadows. Stranger still, the shutters were recently painted; their creaky, rusted hinges were replaced with what looked like solid brass. The front doors were new too, fine things painted a deep green, lacquered, and reinforced with blackened steel bands. The grass was lush, the bushes full and neatly manicured. Morning glories the size of his fist clung to the walls. Each crack in the mortar was filled, and every splotch of green mold was scrubbed away. Vestalis had brought more than a woman’s touch to the place; she’d seized it by the throat, apparently. 

Drawing the lockpicks tucked in his wrist sheath, he ascended the front steps. Opening locks with magic felt like cheating, and he didn’t want to trip any magical wards. Ungolim hadn’t mentioned whether or not Vestalis used magic, but he’d rather be safe than sorry. The Brotherhood couldn’t afford to lose her. _He_ couldn’t afford to lose her.

The lock was of splendid make, but Lucien had been charming locks for more than half his thirty-eight years, and he was as patient as a tree awaiting spring; it gave a satisfying click. Before entering the house, he peeked over his shoulder. His spell would dissipate as soon as he finished with the lock, and the last thing he needed was a passing guard or drunkard to shriek, “By the Nine!” when the door opened and closed seemingly on its own.

The hinges were sturdy and well-oiled, silent as the door inched inward. Fully visible again, he slipped inside before anyone had the chance to see him. Frost salts glittered in bowls throughout the room, keeping he house blessedly cool, but the stench of roses—dozens of them—practically slapped him in the face. Atop the sitting room table, the bookshelf, and the dining table in the adjacent chamber perched vases stuffed with blooms. Despite the darkness, the decor appeared tasteful. Paintings hung here and there, and the furniture was neither cluttered nor sparse. Pine-green rugs covered the floor. Dizzying cream patterns swirled across them, matching their tasseled edges. They were too plush for his liking, and he swore his boots sunk a solid inch into them with every step. Good for muffling footsteps, he supposed. 

He sniffed again, crouched low; under the cloying scent of roses, he caught faint notes of leather, sweat, and old blood. Did the Champion simply love flowers? Or were the bouquets an attempt to hide her true nature from visitors?

Confident she hadn’t noticed his arrival, he padded through the open door across the entryway. Here in the dining room perched the largest vase, a massive porcelain bowl painted with swirls of gold; he guessed it held some sixty roses, some as large as soup bowls. Impossibly intricate lace draped the table. Lucien discarded the idea of promising coin to entice her. Evidently, she had more money than she knew what to do with. His numerous contracts had netted him a comfortable fortune over the years, but the thought of squandering it on something so fleeting, so utterly useless, disgusted him. 

The door at the top of the spiral steps was ajar, a yawning black arch in the gloom. silent as a shadow, he ascended and entered the room. The smell of leather was slightly stronger here, wafting in from the smaller attached chamber; he found a writing desk inside, as well as a locked chest and an armor rack fitted in freshly cleaned leather gear. 

The bedroom held an armoire, a full-length mirror, a bed draped in lace, and a battered trunk. A massive bowl of frost salts atop the armoire kept the chamber far colder than the rest of the house. To the left of the bed hung a sword, unsheathed and lovingly oiled. Its blade shimmered an eerie purple. He regarded it with equal parts intrigue and caution. A Soul Trapping enchantment, by its glow, but the weapon didn’t feel ordinary. He swore it called to him in one breath and cursed him in the next. Lucien managed to tear his gaze away, deciding that if all went well, he’d ask her about it someday.

Moving to the foot of the bed, he began counting the seconds until she woke. They all did, always in under a minute. 

_…five, six, seven…_

The mighty Champion of Cyrodiil was smaller than he’d imagined, curled up on her side and clad in a white shift. He struggled to imagine her slaying daedroths or xivilai. Her skin was fair, unblemished from what little he could see. Lost in sleep, her soft features were the epitome of innocence and purity and gentleness, traits that as he stood there, artists who’d never met her labored to recreate. To some, they made her comely. To Lucien, they simply made manipulation easier. 

_…twelve, thirteen, fourteen…_

Long wavy tresses poured over her shoulders and arms like rivers of gold, somewhat disheveled from sleep. Surely, she’d knot or braid it out in the field. Such long and beautiful-, no, such long hair gave opponents something to grab. She shifted, and the bed creaked. Yanked from his thoughts, Lucien tilted his chin up slightly, steeling himself.

_…sixteen, seventeen, eighte-,_

Without warning, she sat bolt upright, whipping a daedric dagger from beneath her pillow. Magelight splashed soft greens and silvers across the bedchamber, briefly stinging Lucien’s eyes. Unlike some potential recruits, she didn’t spit curses, threats or challenges, or lunge at him. Instead, she simply glared at him, eyes cold and cruel and calculating. A jagged scar slashed down her right temple, angry and red against her alabaster skin. The lacy collar of her nightdress had slipped off her shoulder and revealed a shockingly dark bruise. Her aquiline nose had been broken in the past too, but skillfully reset, as it was one of the last flaws he noticed. 

Gone was her veil of innocence. Gone were all traces of gentleness and virtue. Ungolim’s words crashed through his mind, reminding him that she might’ve been the Hero of Kvatch two seasons ago, but two nights ago, she’d become a murderer, slitting the throat of the adventurer that helped her clear the bandits out of dark, dank Dozonot Cave. Then, she looted the place like a magpie in a jeweler’s shop. 

Suddenly, like the storm-battered tree at the gates, her flaws and history gave her character. Would make her menacing, to some. But made her beautiful to him.

Lucien spread his hands to prove that he meant her no harm. She lowered the dagger and dipped her head slightly in warning, glaring up through her lashes. Pleasurable shivers raced up Lucien’s spine as that damnable something burned hotter in his chest. _Yes, you are the one._

“Tatiana Vestalis,” he began, “you sleep rather soundly for a murderer. That’s good. You’ll need,-” 

“You’re here for my sword.”

Lucien blinked. He loathed being interrupted, but his expression didn’t falter. _You interrupt a stranger at the foot of your bed, yet your sword is your foremost concern?_ Again, he studied the weapon. Even in the false light, its shimmering blade was blacker than ink. He saw a small statuette of a dog on the nightstand beneath it, but nothing else of note. Either heirlooms or prized pieces of loot, he decided. “Your blade intrigues me, but I have no intentions of taking it, or anything else, from you. I come instead with a proposition.”

“Ah. The Dark Brotherhood, then.” 

“Astute.” 

“Not really,” she snapped. “People don’t wander through Anvil hooded and fully cloaked in summer. Robes hinder movement and get caught on things, so you couldn’t be a thief. Or a shitty one, at least. A necromancer would’ve killed me in my sleep, as living people are little use to them. I’ve read some about the Brotherhood and seen the lunatics clinging to daedric shrines. So, that left me with ‘professional murderer’ and ‘cultist.’” Tatiana straightened and brushed tendrils of hair from her face, eyes glittering like shards of ice. “Process of elimination.”

“Then I see no reason to waste my breath and your time on lengthy introductions. The hour is late.” Lucien touched his chest, gloved fingers splayed out over his heart. “My name is Lucien Lachance. Your deathcraft has pleased the Night Mother, thus it is with great pleasure that I invite you, Cyrodiil’s Champion, to join our unique family. You possess skills we deeply value. There is much we could offer you as well.”

Her lips twisted in a sneer, revealing straight white teeth. “Gods, could you imagine the scandal? The headlines? The Champion Falls! Lady Tatiana Consorts with Ritualistic Murderers! The Incorruptible Corrupted!” Heaving a sigh, she slumped back against the mountain of pillows behind her, gaze falling to the dagger in her lap. “I’ve tried finding honest work, you know. Still trying to help people. I liked that. But they either expect too much and get disappointed if I make a mistake, or coddle me like a pampered child. Thieving’s all I have left, but the bastards at the Thieves’ Guild won’t take me back. I’m ‘damaged goods,’ as they put it. There’s been nowhere to go but down.”

Lucien exaggerated his sympathy, but not enough to make her think he pitied her. Ungolim said only that Tatiana had been born to a family of thieves, but Lucien didn’t need to see every thorn in her side. Whether she realized it or not, her house and words revealed plenty for him to work with: a hatred of being coddled. Yet her décor and silken nightdress declared her wealth and love of luxury. Her reaction to the thought of a tainted legacy and wanting to help others betrayed equal capacities for selfishness and selflessness. Murdering the adventurer exposed a greedy streak too. As for her sword and feelings on the Thieves’ Guild, he sensed a story caged inside her, one that began long before Dagon’s hellgates began springing up.

Her emotional display struck him the most, though. No one spoke of her ever wearing her heart on her sleeve, so he pondered whether it was a front, or her figuratively throwing her hands in the air. He bet on the latter.

Gently, he said, “People still praise you in your absence, bow low at your arrival, but now, nothing binds them to you. The bards still sing, but the parades and festivals have ceased. You’re right. One slip, and they will cast you aside like a broken toy. Those who knew you, who truly cared for you, are gone.” Her jaw clenched, and only years of practice kept Lucien from smiling. He had a hook in her. “You knew it from the moment you and that priest set out to stop Mehrunes Dagon. You hadn’t planned to survive, so you made no plans of what to do after his defeat. You stole to survive, not thrive, and now that you have everything, you feel like you have nothing.” 

The Champion was silent for several moments, her knuckles sharp and white on the hilt of her dagger. He’d spoken long enough to give her plenty of time to interrupt again. That she hadn’t proved he’d spoken true. Cynicism still colored her voice when she spoke again, but it was blunted. “And joining a gang of assassins will suddenly give my life the purpose it never really had? I’d thought the Thieves’ Guild gave me purpose too, and they left me to rot in the bloody Imperial Prison.”

Lucien didn’t have to feign his reaction, mouth twisting like he’d tasted something sour. “There is truth to the saying, ‘No honor among thieves.’ The Dark Brotherhood is not a band of flea-bitten rats, Tatiana. It is a family that grants its members peace, shelter, and purpose. We care for our own. We guard our own. We love our own. All this and more will be yours, if you so choose it.”

More silence. When she finally lifted her head, he almost expected tears and a wavering voice. He saw and heard daggers instead. “There’s always a catch,” she whispered. “What else must I do? Bring you the rotting head of that orc? Bathe in unicorn blood?”

The lack of humor in her words somehow leant them humor anyway, and Lucien couldn’t help but chuckle. “There’s always a catch,” he agreed. Treating it as if it was priceless porcelain, he unbuckled the dagger hitched to his belt and placed it at the foot of her bed. Magelight danced across its enameled blue and gold sheath. “The Blade of Woe, a beautiful virgin blade. Use it to kill a man named Rufio, who lodges at the Inn of Ill Omen, north of Bravil. What he has done to deserve death is of no consequence to you. He is a frail, pitiful thing and will present no challenge to someone such as yourself. Kill him quickly in his sleep, make him beg for his life, torture him...do as you see fit. You need not take a trophy. I will know if and when the deed is done.”

“And then?”

“Then I shall return to you in a time and place I deem secure. There, we shall discuss your future in greater detail.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek a moment, staring at the Ebony knife. “Say I decline or change my mind after you’ve gone tonight. I suppose you’ll come back to kill me so I don’t babble on about having been contacted by the oh-so-despicable Dark Brotherhood. And then you’ll take Umbra.”

 _Umbra must be her sword. Have I not read that name before?_ Her questions pleased him—amused him, to an extent. They meant she was seriously weighing the offer, that she was a planner. “We are assassins, not slavers. Should you decline my offer, you will be free to live your life as you see fit. Neither I, nor my fellows shall visit you again.” He paused and flashed a knowing smile. “But we both know you will not speak of this to anyone else. The public knows how we recruit new members. Revealing our meeting here would reveal grave crimes on your part. The Black Horse Courier would plaster the news on every street corner, and the downfall you so deeply dread would begin. The Champion Falls, and such.”

Blush crept over her cheeks. A planner she might be, but she evidently hadn’t thought that one through. “True. What of your dagger? Ebony isn’t exactly common.”

“A trivial matter. You may keep it regardless of your decision. Think of it as a gift and reminder of our invitation.”

She hesitated, then took the Blade of Woe, tracing its gold filigree with near-religious reverence. A few heartbeats later, she looked up. Feminine innocence had returned to her face, so soft and sweet, but her eyes were still hard and cold as chips of granite. “I’ll consider it,” she said, and Lucien knew to the cores of his bones that she meant it.

“That is all I ask. I will be following your progress. Until we meet again, good night, Tatiana, and may Sithis go with you.”

He was already on the top landing when she called after him. “One of the patrols likes to loiter by the temple and smoke his pipe about now. Use the back door if he’s there.”

A fleeting smirk tweaked his lips, but he didn’t turn around. “Of course.”

Lucien ghosted down the steps, robes billowing out behind him. Cracking the door as she and common sense suggested, he found the street empty. Even the tomcat had vanished, leaving only a smear of rat blood by the bushes. Clouds now choked the stars from the western skies. Thunder rolled; chilly wind swept up from the docks, scattering fallen leaves and ushering in the usual smells, along with those of sodden wood, unwashed flesh, and stale sex. Wrinkling his nose, he tugged his hood lower and strode to the gates. 

There was always a chance that candidates’ “yesses” and “I’ll think about its” would become refusals, but that damnable flicker of something still burned in his chest, quelling the meager doubts he had about her. At best, he gave Rufio a week. 

For him, a week of watching. A week of waiting. Praying. As the gates creaked open, he silently pleaded for Sithis and the Night Mother to guide her heart as much as her blade. 

The sentries had changed shifts since he arrived. The taller of the two posted outside the gates—a fair-haired twenty-something with “spoiled noble son” scrawled all over his features—eyed him suspiciously, brows furrowed and gripping his sword like he wanted to question him. 

Lucien met his eyes. It was a lovely night for murder, but he refused to draw unnecessary attention to himself or do anything that might push Tatiana away. She didn’t seem the “wanton slaughter” type. Some of his brothers and sisters were, of course, but she didn’t need to know that yet.

So he simply inclined his head and softly, almost soothingly, said, “Divines keep you, child.” 

Surprise and faint disappointment flickered across the guard’s face. Setting his jaw, he nodded curtly and saying, “And you, sir,” before turning his attention back to the dark, empty road ahead. 

At least you have some life in you, Lucien thought as he made for the stable.

Shadowmere was in the stall where he’d left her, chewing her bit impatiently. The stablehands were gone, and he noticed blood on the straw near her hooves. Huffing a soft laugh through his nose, he stroked her cresty neck, then swung into the saddle. He touched his heart and nodded at the sentries as he turned her onto the road, keeping to a easy trot until they were beyond the guards’ sight, deep among the rolling Gold Coast hills. 

“You will like her, I think,” he whispered as a soft rain began to tap his back and shoulders. “You both bite.” Then, he gave the mare her head, and they surged into the night.


End file.
